


Felicitous solar-orbital anniversary, dear John.

by Dragonlitterchanger



Series: April Fools - The Joke Is On You [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Birthday, Birthday Cake, Blow Jobs, Cake, Dinner, Established Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Hand Jobs, Handcuffs, Honey, M/M, Sex Talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-08
Updated: 2015-08-11
Packaged: 2018-03-29 14:01:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3898978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragonlitterchanger/pseuds/Dragonlitterchanger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s John Watson’s birthday and a celebration is planned - by Sherlock. John thought Sherlock and he had covered most of the bases together in their more than one year old relationship. Oh, how wrong he was. Sherlock could always be counted on to take things one step further.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

  
The date, 7th of July, had been marked with a big red ring for months, and now that they had actually entered the month, Sherlock had placed the calendar on the middle of the fridge door. John had a feeling that Sherlock wouldn’t forget his birthday this year, as he consistently had all the previous years.  Though that was, in all fairness, before John had made a fuss of Sherlock’s birthday last January. Well, you could say fuss… Sherlock only remembered ‘the hook’. After that he ‘rediscovered’ John’s birth certificate and made a note of the date, which was now looming very close.  
  
Sherlock puttered around with a small smile every time he passed the fridge, and at first it made John look forward to the event, but lately he’d begun to worry. Sherlock seemed way too pleased with himself. That could only mean trouble. He wondered if it wouldn’t be prudent to make an appointment to stay with Mummy and Daddy Holmes for the day instead; there would be limits to what Sherlock would get up to if they were staying there. John pondered that solution deeply; John thought, John re-thought and John shook his head and deleted that possible thought again, realising that pretty much nothing stopped Sherlock once he had an idea, so better to have havoc and hell let loose at home in some form of privacy, he figured.  
  
He tried prodding.  
  
“Sherlock?” he asked at breakfast, the Sunday preceding his ‘big day’.

“Hmm? What?” Sherlock said, as always distracted by Gladstone’s begging at the table.  
  
“Should I do anything to prepare for my birthday?” John asked.  
  
“It’s your birthday?” Sherlock looked way too innocent as he glanced up at John.  
  
“Now you’re scaring me, I know you know it’s next week.” John glared at him.  
  
“Oh _, that_ birthday. Yes, I believe there is something in the calendar about that. Prepare? I do think it’ll occur whether you are prepared or not. It’s an annual cycle, I believe. I guess you could produce some confection for the occasion, if you like.” Sherlock shrugged.  
  
“Bake a cake? Why? Are we having guests over?” John wondered nervously who that could be; Sherlock didn’t exactly encourage friendships outside the immediate family.  
  
“I’m sure I don’t know.” Sherlock maintained his feigned innocence.  
  
“I don’t believe you for a minute,” John told him.  
  
“Doesn’t matter what I do then, does it?” Sherlock grinned and let Gladstone have a bite of his banger.

\--- * ---

The day before his birthday John cleaned the flat. He would not have family fighting over seating with the dust bunnies currently in residence. That turned out to be a massive waste of time.  
  
John’s birthday was a Friday. At Sherlock’s request he’d made sure he didn’t have any appointments at the clinic that day, so he woke with a mix of anticipation and dread. Mainly dread when he noticed that Sherlock wasn’t in bed. “Sherl...” he began, but was interrupted when Sherlock came through the door with a tray in his hands and an enormous smile on his lips.  
  
“Happy annual occasion, John,” he announced happily.  
  
“Oh, no. You haven’t made tea, have you? Haven’t we already had this talk…?” John said, a worried expression on his face as he eyed the tray and the cups on it.  
  
“Don’t worry, this is all prepared by Hudders. It’s her present to celebrate your natal day. Well, this and a hideous jumper that I am giving to charity, but don’t tell her that.” Sherlock grinned as he set the tray down on the bed. It contained a very modest breakfast, as far as Mrs Hudson’s breakfasts go.  
  
“You will not, I will wear it at Christmas, as I always do with her jumpers,” John protested as he snatched a slice of peach and dipped it in the little bowl of syrup provided on the tray. He loved fruit for breakfast, and she knew it. There were also two boiled eggs for them, and toast cut in thin slices for dipping in it, and her best tea with her signature hint of Lapsang Souchong. The smoky scent filled John’s nostrils as he inhaled it from his cup.  
  
Sherlock bent to kiss his shoulder as John sipped. “Wear what you will in December. Today I am in charge of your apparel. I have laid out a set of clothes for you to wear after your shower. We have an appointment at The Strand at noon.”  
  
“Oh, plenty of time then.” John stretched and stuffed his mouth with a mix of strawberry slices and blueberries.  
  
“Would have been if you hadn’t stayed up writing your blog till two this morning. It’s almost eleven now.” Sherlock guffawed at the shocked look on John’s face. The doctor was used to waking up early, with the aid of the alarm in his phone. The alarm Sherlock had turned off last night to ensure that John would have a good night’s sleep.  
  
“You’re an old man now, John,” Sherlock smirked at John’s consternation, “a whole year older, and you must get your rest when you can!”  He whooped for joy when he was able to jump out of reach just in time to avoid the ringing clasp to his arse that John was attempting to land on him.  
  
“Come on now, have your shower, and get dressed. We have to go soon, granny.” Sherlock returned to the bed, sitting down and picking at the fruit on the tray, while dipping his bread in his egg. He smiled at John, knowing he’d never slap a smiling Sherlock. “I’ve already dropped Gladstone off downstairs. Hudders will mind him, they’re out on their morning walk now. Not sure who’s walking who, though.”  
  
John glowered at him while they finished the breakfast and then had a quick shower and shave. He dressed in the light summer suit Sherlock had selected, a very light grey thin fabric with a short sleeved blue shirt. No tie was provided he noticed happily, as it was quite a warm day. He put his feet into the loafers Mycroft had given him for Christmas, as always revelling in the soft skin and perfect fit. There was something to be said for Mycroft’s impeccable taste when one was the recipient of it.  
  
Sherlock was already dressed, and as usual wearing his Belstaff even though it was an average warm summers day. Slightly overcast, and there was a pleasant breeze coming through the streets, but definitely not coat weather. John shook his head at the whim, but he had long since given up on Sherlock leaving those coat tails at home. As they were leaving John patted his pockets and noticed he didn’t have his mobile, so he went to retrieve it.  
  
“Where are you going? We’re leaving now!” Sherlock looked up, annoyed at the delay.  
  
“Just getting my phone,“ John told him.  
  
“Taken care of,” Sherlock said and nodded at the door. “Downstairs with you now, I do believe we have a timetable,” he said in mockery of one of Mycroft’s more insufferable friends.

A cab materialised out of thin air as usual when Sherlock stepped on to the pavement and they climbed in. When Sherlock gave the driver the address John sat up straight, staring at him.  
  
“The Savoy? What are we doing at The Savoy? Lunch?” he queried of Sherlock who just smiled his enigmatic smile at him, and stayed quiet for the short trip.  
  
Upon arrival Sherlock went straight to the desk and asked to check in.  
  
“A room? You got us a room here, you nutter? We live ten minutes away,” John protested, having a fair inkling about the price level of the place.  
  
“Our flat doesn’t have the amenities they offer here,” Sherlock shrugged.  
  
“We don’t need amenities, do we?” John wondered.  
  
“Today we do,” Sherlock avowed and accepted the key card as he pointed John to the lifts. He led them down a short corridor to their room. He opened the door and ushered John through.  
  
John gaped at the room. The bed took up a fair portion of it, and it looked like it had at least three mattresses and something that approximated twenty-five pillows. He was beginning to approve of Sherlock’s idea. A massage table to the side of the room, by the window, was definitely intriguing and a quick look into the bathroom revealed a tub that was big enough for the two of them. John elevated Sherlock’s idea to sheer genius.  
  
“So what are we doing here?” John asked, shedding his jacket and hanging it on a chair.  
  
“Oh, we have a full programme, starting with a massage, so you should get undressed right away,” Sherlock informed him as he hung the Belstaff in the closet, along with his jacket. He proceeded to roll up the sleeves of his purple shirt, which John was pretty sure was worn in honour of him today. He did tend to hum a lot whenever Sherlock wore it.  
  
“Is there a masseur coming up here?” John asked while unbuttoning his shirt.  
  
“I’ll be your masseur today,” Sherlock informed him and opened a drawer in the side of the massage table, taking out a selection of oils.  
  
“You will what? Since when do you do massages?” John’s eyebrows did a little ceremonial dance.  
  
“Since in five minutes when I shall commence that career. Now loose the trousers, you can leave your pants on if you feel shy.”  Sherlock contemplated the oils out loud. “Would you like Sweet Almond oil or Apricot Kernel oil? Any nut allergies?”  
  
“There are days when you make me prickly, yes,” John teased him as he disrobed completely and crawled onto the massage table, face down.  
  
“Very droll, John,” Sherlock said, un-amused and picked the Apricot oil, warming it in his hands before he began rubbing it gently into Johns’ shoulders.  
  
“Mmmh, not bad,” John conceded.  
  
“Thank you for your high praise. Now shut up, relax and let me work on your muscle groups. You are too tense, by far!” Sherlock chided as he kneaded John’s neck muscles, before moving down his back, thoroughly working on each area, adding oil as he went.  
  
“Arrghmmnh, ok, that’s bloody marvellous actually,” John moaned as his lower back was lovingly worked. Five minutes later a protest rang out though. “Oi! Hang on, what are you doing now?”  
  
“Gluteus Maximus,” Sherlock answered as he worked John’s left buttock with both hands. “It’s a muscle you tend to overuse.”  
  
“Are you saying I sit about?” There was a hint of danger in John’s voice.  
  
“Indeed. You sit on it in the clinic, where you often go. You sit when you blog, and you blog a lot.” Sherlock timed his words with his kneading of the butt. “You sit when you eat, and you eat a lot.  You sit when you watch telly, and you watch a lot. You sit when...”  
  
“Right! Right. I got your point. Enough. Just massage my arse at will.” John surrendered and moaned as he felt Sherlock’s clever, clever fingers dig in.  
  
“You are quite a sight, John Watson. You don’t look at all like an old man,” Sherlock praised him as he moved down to the thighs and then all the way up the flank to the shoulders again.  
  
“That would be because I’m not an old man, you egg!” John corrected him. “Oh, do that again.”  
  
“Absolutely. This is a wonderful excuse to feel your skin all over. We should do this more often.” Sherlock moved his fingers up to John’s scalp and massaged it vigorously for a few minutes to delighted moans.  
  
“By all means, any time you want,” John told him. “How did you learn to do this so well?”  
  
“I You-Tubed it. There’s a lot of instructions on massage therapy. I saw eighty four movies ranging in length from three minutes to fourteen. I’ve only used twenty-two of the techniques so far, “Sherlock said and shifted into number twenty three.  
    John moaned  
  
Twenty four.  
    John moaned again.  
  
Twenty five.  
    John moaned again.  
  
_(You’re a smart reader – you get the picture.)  
_  
Sherlock stalled when nearly an hour had passed.  
  
“Enough for now, John. This is only the first half of the massage. My hands need a pause, and so do you. Let’s take a little tea break and resume afterwards.” Sherlock straightened up, stretching his back muscles, flexing his arms thus positioning his shirt buttons in the ultimate danger zone. But once again, they held firm. Reaching down he slapped John’s buttocks and wiped his hands on a towel. “You can have a shower first, if the scent of the massage oil annoys you.”  
  
“Huh? Yeah, maybe I should,” John said as he tried to rise. He was as sluggish as a… well, slug. Every limb tingling and tranquil, and not terribly responsive as his neural signals tried communicating with them. “Is there a kettle in the room?” He attempted to raise his head to look around him, but it kept flunking back down to the padded bench.  
  
“We’re not staying at the Savoy taking our tea in the room. Really, what are they renowned for, John?” Sherlock smiled at him as he helped him sit up.  
  
“Their afternoon tea? Are we having that? But it costs an arm and a leg, Sherls,” he half-protested.  
  
“Yes, of course we’re having their high tea on your special day. A designer birthday edition, even. Our reservation is for three o’clock, so we can just make it, I think. Can you shower and dress yourself?” Sherlock smirked at the limp doctor.  
  
“I’ve managed since I was three, so yes, I think I can.” John’s stomach growled as he got off the table and started dressing. “Oh, good timing, you,” he smiled at it and prodded off to the bathroom.  After his shower John sat on the small sofa in the room, drying his hair. “What time is it?” he asked when his hair was presentable, and Sherlock demonstrably checked his wrist watch.  
  
“Just about half an hour before the right time to go down, actually.”

“Hey, you’re wearing Mycroft’s present. Why? You always use your phone to check the time.” John asked, surprised.  
  
“Absent phone, I use the watch,” Sherlock explained.  
  
“Where’s your phone then?” John wondered as he donned his shoes.  
  
“Next to yours.”  
  
“And where is mine?” John sighed, getting a little tired of the game as he shrugged into his jacket.  
  
“At home, charging.” Sherlock held the door open for John.  
  
“You left your phone at home?” John’s jaw went far south at high velocity. “What if someone calls, needing you for a case?”  
  
“Then they will have to wait till I am available. And today I am not. This is your day and night. I am all yours till your birthday expires at 9.43 tomorrow morning, which I believe is exactly twenty-four hours and an undisclosed number of years after your clinical birth.” Sherlock offered John his arm, and kept it there till they entered the Thames Foyer, the live piano music streaming out to meet them. Their table was right next to a big [gazebo](http://pic100.picturetrail.com/VOL726/3639057/24573160/411202852.jpg) in the middle, and they were seated in a comfortable, soft, green sofa. As the waiter headed off to get their tea Sherlock turned to John and snogged him so thoroughly that the piano player lost three bars of “My way”.  
  
When he eventually sat back John looked up at him with dark eyes and wet lips. “What was that…? Don’t get me wrong, I whole-heartedly approve of kissing just like this, but you’ve never… not in public. Why now?”  
  
“I know you like to show ‘us’ off in public, and since it is your celebratory day, I shall kiss you generously wherever we are today,” Sherlock informed him matter-of-factly, even though his breath hitched, indicating he was not entirely unaffected by the kiss himself.  
  
“Generously?” John queried by raising an eyebrow and leaning back on the sofa, raising an inviting arm.  
  
Sherlock snogged him again, his hands making a thorough job of messing up John’s hair.  
  
Their waiter held back discreetly for a minute or so before clearing his throat and putting the first tray down on the table, before he went back for the rest of their serving.  
  
By the time he was done laying the table John had given up counting the number of cakes, one of which held one diplomatic candle, sweets, scones, sauces, jams (and, oh, there were so very many varieties of those), crèmes - either clotted or custard, sandwiches, smoked salmon with scrambled eggs, fruit slices, berries and biscuits. He grinned at Sherlock for every item he pointed at, seriously wondering where to start, and doubting that he could ever finish.  
  
There was of course also tea. A big pot of a highly fragrant Earl Grey, and milk as well as cream, lemon slices, white sugar and brown sugar and caramel sugar on a stick. And two very bubbly glasses of champagne.  
  
It was all just very pleasant, you might say, but what was priceless was Sherlock being ‘mother’.  
  
It took John a moment to process the fact that Sherlock had actually noticed precisely how he liked his tea. He’d never imagined that this aspect of his life had registered in the brilliant mind, but he was proven thoroughly wrong as Sherlock prepared his cup just exactly as he loved it the most, even down to the detail of  blowing on it, just for 1,2 seconds,  before passing it to John.  
  
John sipped his tea while munching on the cakes, dipping strawberries in warm chocolate sauce, satiating his hunger with cucumber sandwiches, nipping on the smoked salmon, imagining Sherlock covered in custard crème, and generally having a very good time. The occasional snog was almost literally icing on the cakes.  
  
“This is scrumptious, just lovely. Thanks. But do you really think you can make it through a whole day without taking on a case?” he giggled, relaxed and full.  
  
“Yes, of course I can. I know how to bide my time. This is London after all, someone is bound to be killed in an interesting and baffling way any day now, and they’ll call me. They always call me. If not, I find other ways of amusing myself.” The left hand side of Sherlock’s lip lifted un-proportionally, some may call it a smirk.  
  
“Like what?” John wondered.

“Like it’s ’bout time I came up with something to tease Greg again, I’ve been too nice for a while now. How about a little vampire scare?” Sherlock snickered under his breath.  
  
“Come on! Mycroft would have your hide. At least you left everyone alone for April this year.” John laughed at the memory of last years’ April’s Fool incidents.  
  
“Obviously! With you threatening to send _that photo_ to Mycroft and Greg, bloody unfairly, I may add.” Sherlock scowled at John.  
  
“You didn’t believe me, did you? You really think I would actually have shared _that_ picture? It’s bad enough that you turn the shade of a lobster buffet whenever you see any form of hook basically anywhere. I can’t even let you near the fixtures  & fittings section in Morrells. Mycroft, at least, has figured something out from your rosy colours, I’m not sure if Greg has…”  
  
“I wouldn’t worry,” Sherlock rumbled. “Anyway, those vampires…”  
  
“Sherlock, no!” John giggled and grabbed another scone, slathering it with the blueberry jam.  
  
He tried prodding Sherlock into eating his fair share, but he only picked at the fruit and a few decorations on the cakes. He eventually ate an entire half of a cucumber sandwich with heavy moans of protest as dressing. John just shook his head and finished all the salmon on his own.  
  
John finally admitted defeat and gave up eating any more of the delectable titbits, even though there was quite a lot of the little cakes left, as well as crèmes, chocolate sauce and other delicacies. Sherlock got up and spoke to the waiter, asking to have the remains delivered to the room, and they retired.  Well, at least they got up to leave, but just as they were exiting the room Sherlock pressed John up against the frame of the entrance and snogged him within an inch of his life just one more time. The piano player honoured this with the entire first half of “Treulich geführt" from Lohengrin – and since Sherlock was a great admirer of Richard Wagner he heatedly approved and extended the kiss accordingly, whereas John’s heart skipped a beat or two as he recognised the melody as "Here Comes the Bride".  
  
Sherlock led a slightly dazed John back upstairs and they entered their room. Sherlock busied himself getting out a sheet from a drawer, draping it carefully over the massage bench as John placed his jacket on a chair.  
  
“John, you should go into the bathroom and undress, there’s a robe you can wear,” Sherlock suggested.  
  
“Oh, don’t want to see me strip? Too arousing for you to handle?” John teased him, looking delightfully tousled and newly-kissed.  
  
“I am considering your sense of decorum by affording you the privacy of facilitating the use of an adjoining room to undress, unless you prefer the scrutiny you would be bound to receive from the waiter who will deliver the left-overs in three minutes,” Sherlock announced with maddening logic.                                                                                                                                                                 
  
“Oh, shaddup,” John retorted as he disappeared into the bathroom to change.

At the predicted moment Sherlock admitted the waiter with the trolley carrying the leftovers, with the extra items Sherlock had pre-ordered for the afternoon. He smirked at the young man, but realising that wasn’t enough he also tipped him to get rid of him, then moved the trolley next to the massage table.  
  
“You can come out now, it’s safe,” he called out to John who emerged from the bathroom in the thick white robe the hotel had provided.  
  
John grinned as he saw the trolley ladled with little cakes, muffins, cups, saucers and what not, including some stuff he’d not seen downstairs.  “You want me face up or down this time?” he asked, indicating the massage table.  
  
“On your back, if you don’t mind, John,” Sherlock said as he picked out a soft pillow from the pile on the bed, placing it on the headrest of the table to make John comfortable. He waited as John positioned himself, and then tucked the sheet in under the bars running the length of the table, adjusting the pillow. “Does it feel comfy?” he asked, poking said pillow.  
  
John wriggled into the padded table and the pillow and smiled up at him. “It feels quite nice. Just don’t poke my stomach too hard, it’s quite full."  
  
“Your stomach is in no danger from me,” Sherlock assured him and poured massage oil on his palms, rubbing them together before leaning down over the table. He placed his hands on John’s shoulders, rubbing his thumbs gently into the flesh as he bent to kiss John as if he was the most delectable piece off the dessert tray. He sucked on John’s lower lip, chewing slightly at it before locking their lips firmly together, letting his tongue play with John’s. He heard as well as felt John’s moans, and answered them. He moved his hands up and down the length of Johns’ arms, relaxing them till they were lying prone along his body. Then quick as a snake he snapped the handcuffs in place on both John’s wrists, pinning him to the table. John didn’t even feel it, but he heard the snickety-snack sound and tried to pull away from the kiss. Sherlock let him, and stood up to check that each cuff was securely fastened to the side of the table.  
  
“What are you doing, you cock?” John pulled at the cuffs, and tried to sit up to see what was going on. “You chained me to the table? Let me go, right now, you deranged poodle head!” There was a fair amount of chain rattling, so Sherlock hurried to reassure him.  
  
“It is for your own good, John. I need you to lie still fo…”  
  
“I can lie still if you tell me to, but unchain me, this instant!”  John interrupted him.  
  
“As much as I love your Captain-voice and the air of authority it affords you, I may as well inform you that I have formulated a plan for today’s proceedings, and I am in no humour to deviate from that based on your disagreement with my measures.”  
  
“What?” John asked, his nose so slightly and adoringly wrinkled that Sherlock bent to give it a quick kiss.  
  
“No,” Sherlock abbreviated.  
  
“But I won’t move,” John assured him. “I like your massage.”  
  
“You won’t move, because those handcuffs and these belts will keep you in place. It is a precautionary measure since some of my therapy could risk bringing on a sense of titillation to bring you to a point where you may vellicate without this aid,” Sherlock explained and brought forth two padded belts.  
  
“You mean you’re going to tickle me?” John whined.  
  
“I can’t guarantee an entirely tickle free experience,” Sherlock elaborated while he fastened the belts across John’s torso and on his stomach, making sure not to fasten them too tight. He managed to ignore the colourful language John sent his way during the procedure.  
  
“You’re looking for trouble, my friend,” John sneered at him when Sherlock was done fastening them.  
  
“Negatorius. I’m looking for a still and pliant lover that I can pleasure at will. And it looks like I have it.”  
  
“I could call out for help,” John tested him.  
  
“You could, but you won’t,” Sherlock said with irritating certainty, and John grumbled while he begrudgingly agreed. However silently.

Sherlock then proceeded to decorate John in little pieces of cake, placing them on his torso. He bent down to nibble very carefully at them, mmh’ing and ahh’ing as he licked his lips, catching stray crumbs.

“So, that’s why you didn’t eat anything down in the tearoom! You cheat!” John wriggled as Sherlock’s hair brushed against his chest, tickling insanely.  
  
“You catch on quickly, John,” Sherlock smiled and slathered John’s nipples in vanilla cream. He then ate it leisurely, licking up small portions at a time. John was beginning to tremble, just a bit. Sherlock felt that, and let his right hand trail down John’s side, along his thigh and inwards to the groin. He played with the coarse hair, finally letting his palm rub against the hardness he felt growing. He took a spoonful of clotted cream and looked at John meaningfully, raising his eyebrows just before he decorated the tip of John’s hard on, trailing the little spoon around in increasing circles till the cream was distributed. He bent his head, opened his mouth and licked it off slowly. So slowly in fact, that John protested the lack of speed with small incoherent whimpers.  
  
“I’m not a snack, Sherlock!”  There was a fair amount of growl in John’s voice.  
  
Sherlock felt sorry for him, so he licked his way up to John’s mouth instead, nibbling on crumbs on the way, kissing him passionately, as his fingers lovingly replaced his mouth between John’s legs, his fingertips stroking and caressing the soft velvety skin covering the rock-hard member. He broke the kiss to whisper to him. “If you get scared, or anything hurts, all you have to do is say ‘stop’, and I’ll stop everything. I promise, all right, love?”  
  
“It’s good… all good,” John panted, bucking slightly into the warm hand. “But what about you? I want to feel you, touch you!”  
  
“Why?” Sherlock asked just before dropping some jam and letting his lips feast on John’s right ear, his tongue painting an intricate pattern on the rim that seemed to increase John’s panting.  
  
“So you… so I… you get some pleasure too,” John told him in a quavering voice.  
  
“You like to see me get pleasure?” Sherlock asked him, a wicked smile on his full lips.  
  
“Oh God, yes!” John confirmed, his pupils blown wide, proving to the ever observant Sherlock just how important it was to John.  
  
“Oh? So that gets you off?” Sherlock was never late to take neither a hint nor a challenge, so he kissed John deeply one more time, drawing back slowly, as in regret, his lips full and wet, his eyes locked on John’s. He stood up very slowly, straightening out before he started to unbutton his shirt. He kept his eyes locked on John’s as his fingers ventured further down to his trousers. He unbuttoned and unzipped them. Pushing his pants down he took himself in hand, stroking slowly as he let his mouth fall open. He closed his eyes and let his head drop back as he increased his pace, letting his pleasure spill over his lips in small moans.  
  
John let out a tortured sound bordering between grunting hedgehog and a dog whistle. “I hope you googled ‘resuscitation’ because I’m likely to have a heart attack here,” he moaned.  
  
 Sherlock used his left hand to push his trousers further down to give him room to work himself, before using it to part his shirt, circling first his right nipple, then his left, pinching a bit and moaning a little louder.  
  
“Sherlock…” John whined, his eyes locked firmly on the sight before him, drinking in every centimetre of bare skin, his own member leaking liberally in sympathy with the seeing to Sherlock was giving himself.  
  
“Talk to me, John.” Sherlock raised his head and sought John’s eyes with his own, even though they were half lidded. “Tell me how to touch myself. Make me come with your commands!”  
  
“Oh, ffnngghhh ssshit!” John felt dizzy even though he was lying down. “I can’t do that. I want to touch you, I want my hands on you,” he moaned, pulling at the cuffs, frustrated at their obstinate reluctance to Just.Let.Go!  
  
“No, John. Your voice only,” Sherlock sternly reprimanded him. “That is all you get to use to help me acquire carnal pleasure. Please, John, will you? It would be a novel occurrence, and I am as ever dedicated to expand my sexual field of experience with you.”  Despite this very coherent speech Sherlock’s voice was breathy with arousal as he spoke the words while he twisted his hand, slowly moving up and down on himself, moaning softly with each stroke.  
  
“Oh, God!” John exhaled, squinting his eyes for an indulgent moment, in exchange for being able to run his hand across his eyes. In short order his libido won over his brain as he made the decision to play along. He took a deep breath to steady himself and tried with a tentative, “then you should stop moving your hand right now, Sherlock!” He had worked hard on finding his ‘commanding voice’, but to his own ears he’d missed by a mile. However, judging by Sherlock’s reaction he’d nailed it. Sherlock absolutely froze mid-stroke and looked at John with such adoration that John’s heart nearly melted out of his chest.  
  
“Yes, John.” Sherlock complied, stilling his hand and waiting for instructions.  
  
“Do you have any lube? Of course you do, you’re  Sherlock. Get it!” John waited as Sherlock opened a drawer in the table and got a tube out, smearing his hand. John was a little satisfied to note that it was shaking a bit. He then resumed his commands. “Now wank yourself, but go slow. Keep the strokes firm and to a ¾ waltz rhythm – yes, I know what that is, so stop glaring -  but stop at the top, use your thumb to smear the wetness around. I can see that you are glistening wet. Do it now.” John was proud of himself for producing so many coherent words in one go.  
  
“Hnnn, yes… oh yes, John,” Sherlock moaned as he complied.  “Uhn, feels good.”  
  
“Looks good,” John agreed, matching his panting to his sweating _. How could you produce so much sweat just lying still, basically just chatting a bit, on a massage table?_  he wondered, but let the thought get stored in a corner of his mind tagged with a later transfer to Sherlock’s mind palace for his  future experiments. “Go a little faster now,” he said, “but you don’t come without asking first, ok?”  
  
“I won’t… I promise, I won’t.” Sherlock stuttered a bit and his head fell back again as he closed his eyes.  
  
“No! No! You don’t. You look at me. Sherlock, eye contact at all times. Look at me now!” John was going mental not being able to hold or touch Sherlock he was while looking so aroused, so at least he had to hold on to that one point of contact.  
  
With a visible effort Sherlock raised his head up again and opened his eyes, seeking out John’s. The pupils were as near solid black as they could go without the aid of chemicals, and John’s breath hitched as there was an almost electric buzz in the air between the two men.  
  
“Squeeze your cock a little harder, and rub a little slower. Touch your balls with your other hand, push your pants down more, yes like that,” John nodded as Sherlock complied. Sherlock was beginning to pant heavily. “Go faster now, Sherlock. Take more lube if you need it. No?” John smirked as Sherlock slowly shook his head, as he sped up his movements. “Gorgeous, you’re gorgeous. Moan for me, I want to hear you.”  
  
Sherlock moaned deeply, cocking his head as his mouth opened to let out the deep, ungodly noise that turned John’s spine to water. John inhaled sharply to regain his focus.  
  
“Wet your fingers and twist your right nipple. Hard.” Sherlock complied instantly, but John was not satisfied with the result.  “No, harder than that, I want to hear you whine,” John insisted, and licked his dry lips as Sherlock followed through, the resulting sound making John pant out loud, even though he lay there untouched.  
  
“Now smooth the nipple over, console it, and caress it. Yes, like that. No, eyes open, Sherlock. Thank you. Speed up your movements on your cock. Faster than that. Oh fuck, yes. You’re so pretty. Are you close?”  
  
“Gnnn…” Sherlock said and nodded.  
  
“No. Use words, Sherlock. Tell me how it is, are you close to coming?”  
  
“Nnhh, yes, John. Oh, John, may I come, please? Can I come on you?” Sherlock asked as he sped his movements up, spreading his legs, digging his heels into the plush carpet.  
  
“Can you…on me? Oh! Fuck, yeah,” John agreed, panting deeply in his prone and immobile position. He swallowed heavily, wondering when his mouth had gone _that_ dry. “Do it, Sherlock. Come, now! Right now, on me!”  
  
Sherlock took one step closer to John, almost touching his chest with his cock. He lowered his left hand and enveloped his testicles in the long fingers, pressing slightly. “Oh… oh, can’t… oh, John!” he stuttered as he fought to maintain the eye contact, but had to give up as his orgasm hit him. He nearly doubled over as he emptied himself onto John’s chest, heaving for breath as he stroked himself through it, till he finally managed to open his eyes again and look at John. “Sorry… eyes, I couldn’t,” he apologized.  
  
John managed to stammer out an “it’s all right; I don’t think I could have either. It was pretty hot to look at anyway.”  
  
Sherlock rested his hands on each side of the massage table, bending down to rest his forehead against John’s. He was panting heavily, but smiling blissfully. Having regained his breath he whispered, “you will please me greatly by making me an mp3 file for those lonely, lonely days where you leave me to go frolic in the clinic.”   
  
“I do not frolic, and right now I have some needs, Sherlock. Urgent needs.” John tried to buck upwards, but there was nothing there to buck against.   
  
“Yes, sorry, of course. Just give me a second.” Sherlock straightened up slowly, exhaling. “If I had known oral presentations could be like this I would have gone to more talks at uni,” he smiled and turned to go to the bathroom. “I’ll just get a towel, you’re a bit of a mess, John.”   
  
“It’s going to get messier if you don’t hurry back,” John promised him, realising too late that he had nothing to follow that threat up with. All he could do was lie there and pine for Sherlock’s touch. Fortunately Sherlock hurried, and quickly cleaned John off with a wet towel, throwing it on the floor when he was done.   
  
“Now, let’s see to you.” He smiled so wickedly that John experienced a small shiver of dread mixed with a healthy dose of anticipation.  
  
Sherlock looked over the dessert trolley and picked up a bowl with a golden fluid. He painted John’s legs with it using a small silver spoon, covering him in dots from his ankles, across his knees, and dotting the insides of his thighs.  
  
“Sticky, what is it?” John demanded.  
  
“Honey, French acacia honey, the best kind.” Sherlock smiled and licked his lips before transferring the action to John’s legs.  
  
“Honey, of of of course…” John stuttered and howled. “Tickles! Tickles!” He tried to kick Sherlock away, but two strong hands held his legs down. Sherlock did, however, lift his head a bit, so his hair didn’t unduly torment John. When he started moving up to the inside of the thighs, John’s protests turned to moans.  
  
Sherlock savoured the thick honey, lapping up every drop, finishing just before it got too interesting for John. He reached up and gave John a kiss so he too could taste the delicious sweetness.  
  
“Mmmh, good. But I feel sticky.” John wrinkled his nose.  
  
“You’ll get a lot stickier before I’m done, I can assure you,” Sherlock chuckled, a deep base that extracted a sympathy chuckle from John.  
  
Sherlock then turned to the dessert trolley again and turned back to John grinning as he slowly unfolded a large, tepid pancake, slathering it with something.  
  
“You can’t possibly mean to...” John managed to say before Sherlock had wrapped it around his cock, patting it in place before adding a little sugar to the mix. He bent to take a small bite, chewing as he straightened up again, smiling at the breathless John. He turned to face John’s feet, and standing by his hip he lifted John’s left leg by bending it at the knee. John whimpered a bit as he felt Sherlock’s long, slender fingers first caress his balls, and then move down the crack between his legs, one slick finger slowly, but insistently pushing in. His other hand left the knee, bent onto the table, and started to slowly twist the pancake.  
  
“That had better not be custard crème making  it so... aaarrh!” John began, but had to pause as the finger hit something electrifying, “...making  it so so so slick,” he managed to finish.  
  
“Don’t be silly, John, it’s the lube,” Sherlock explained as he slid another finger in, opening John up a bit. “It’s only custard in the pancake.” The heavy moans were testament to John’s enjoyment of the procedure. Sherlock opened the drawer again and drew out the preposterously expensive plug he’d bought for this very occasion. He withdrew his fingers to the murmur of small protests from John and inserted it.  
  
“You don’t have to talk to me for this, John. Just enjoy it.” He turned back to look at John’s blissful face, moving both his hands to massage the pancake around John’s liberally oozing hardness. Then he turned the plug on to its first setting, hearing a sharp intake of breath followed by a series of sounds that couldn’t really be construed as words, at least not in any language known to humankind.  
  
“What what what what is that?” John finally stammered.  
  
“Just a small birthday present. I found it online and really wanted to try it on you. It has a lot of settings; I just hope you can last till we’ve tried them all.” Sherlock’s face looked way too close to his this-is-just-an-experiment-look, and John wasn’t entirely happy about that.  
  
“Not a prayer, mate,” he panted, feeling the vibrations only too keenly. If there were multiple settings he figured he could last for about two.  
  
When Sherlock bent his head to begin nibbling at the pancake John nearly sprained his neck to see what was happening, but he got wise quite quickly. Though quick is what Sherlock was not. He took incredibly small and careful bites, swallowing and licking John’s cock completely clear of cream and sugar at the spot he was working before moving on to the next one. John felt that this summer day had turned very, very warm, and he was quite happy that he wasn’t wearing anything. Apart from pancake. Pretty soon the remnants of the pancake couldn’t hold together any longer but fell away in shreds and bits, so Sherlock stopped eating at him.  
  
“I’ll just clear this away, and refill you with something palatable,” he declared as he wiped the remnants off with a towel, pondering his choices from the table before selecting a thick raspberry jam. He drew a line of it from the top to the bottom of John’s cock and then gave John a wicked smile before bending his head. All John could see was a mass of black curls, but oh, he could feel. And he felt it keenly as Sherlock clicked the plug to the next setting as he swallowed John completely, his tongue working overtime to lap up the jam. Then refilling the jam, then adding tiny cake bites, then eating that, then adding something so sticky that Sherlock had to suck extra hard to get it off, and John just wholeheartedly approved of this method of feeding the detective.  
  
“Oh, God! So good… more… Yes, yes, yes. That! Just like that. Don’t, don’t... don’t… stop!” John wailed, and Sherlock immediately stopped everything, taking a demonstrably big step away from the table, hearing one thing only - John’s safe word.

“I didn’t mean ‘stop’, you berk! I said DON’T stop, DON’T, DON’T, DON’T!” John repeated at the top of his lungs, not caring if they could hear it above the musical matinee across the street. (They couldn’t actually; the string sections were being particularly loud for this afternoon’s performance).  
  
“Oh, sorry.” Sherlock looked uncharacteristically sheepish, having misunderstood. He decided to make it up to John and returned to his fellating with gusto. In a matter of seconds John resumed his litany of deity praise. Sherlock upped the setting on the plug again, and this time had to use both hands to hold John’s hips down on the table. John wasn’t making sense any longer, so Sherlock figured he was getting very close. He let go of John’s hip with his right hand and wrapped his long fingers around the base of John’s shaft, slowly pulling his mouth off as he followed it with his hand. He then immediately began to rub John with slow, firm strokes, his eyes locked onto John’s blissful face.  
  
“How do you want to come, John?” he asked, cocking his head waiting for an answer, but John just gagged out a few moans, so he aided him with the choices. “Do you want to come like this, me wanking you hard, or I could do it soft, or do you want to come in my mouth?”  When John still didn’t answer Sherlock changed the setting of the plug again, hoping it would get a reaction. It did.

“Mao, mao, mao, mao, nahahahaaaw,” John explained emphatically.  
  
Good job that Sherlock spoke John. “My mouth now? Not quite yet, sir.” He smiled and continued to use his hands on John. Slowly though; as Sherlock had come to experience, John could sometimes get so overly aroused that he would be unable to climax. So he set about calming him down, just a peg or two.  
  
“No, Sherlock… I need more… please,” John begged him.  
  
“In due time, love. Just need to get us on the same page. Just feel this, there’s no hurry. I will take you in my mouth, you know I enjoy the role of the fellator, but you have to relax a little bit first. Yes, like that,” he praised as he saw John’s facial lines smoothen out a bit.  
  
Sherlock used his right hand on John’s cock, moving up and down at a slow steady pace, as he stroked his abdomen with his left hand, soothing and calming.  When John seemed to have his breathing under control he upped the pace of both hands, pausing only to click the remote of the plug inside John to a new setting. John immediately heaved in a large chunk of breath, and Sherlock hurried to assure him. “It’s ok now John, you can come when you want to, just take your time.” And with that he bent his head and swallowed John down, using his tongue to add pressure as he moved up and down. He moved his right hand down to cup John’s balls, letting his long fingers play soothingly with them, till it wasn’t so soothing anymore. He could feel John’s belly moving rapidly up and down as his breathing became ragged again, and he knew John was very close. He hummed around the shaft, feeling John shiver in response and he increased his pace, just that little bit that made it impossible for John to do anything but succumb to the pleasure and come in Sherlock’s mouth.  
  
“I’m… I… ngggh…” was the only warning John got off before it became impossible for him to speak. He arched into Sherlock’s mouth, wanting all he could get of the wet heat that was all he could feel and focus on. It seemed like his entire blood supply went to his groin, holding on there for a second before exploding back out into every vein of his body. He simply couldn’t breathe, but he didn’t care about that at all. As his body tensed, he emitted a long moan, bucking as much as he could with Sherlock standing over him like that. His orgasm sent him on an orbital trip of his senses, and he didn’t come down till every surface of his body was covered in goosebumps. He inhaled with a sharp breath, as his brain informed his lungs of an immediate and critical need of oxygen, blinking to regain focus. When he could finally see again, his vision was blurred by Sherlock’s face, so close, softly kissing his lips and his nose.  
  
“Breathe, John, breathe. That’s good,” Sherlock soothed him while stroking his hair, not stopping till John had almost full control of his faculties again. Sherlock used the intermittent time to unlock the cuffs and remove the belts.  
  
“I wouldn’t get up just yet, John. I’ll go run the tub while you relax a bit. I’ll come back to get you in a little while. Don’t move without me.”  
  
John smiled to himself, wondering if Sherlock knew that John couldn’t move if he wanted to.  
  
It seemed a long time, and John was half dosing, so it was hard to tell, but eventually Sherlock came back to give him a hand up. His legs were shaking when he tried to stand, so Sherlock put a steadying arm around him and guided him towards the bathroom with slow and steady steps.  
  
“God, I’m so sticky,” John complained as his thighs gave off an unsympathetic sucking sound as he walked. _And was that his chest creaking?  
_  
“Afraid so,” Sherlock concurred, while simultaneously trying and failing to hide a smile, garnished with a light chuckle.  
  
John pondered his upcoming and epic revenge, but forgot all about it when he saw the bathroom. The tub was filled with steaming warm water, welcoming bubbles covering the surface, and one big yellow rubber duck bobbing in the middle. The room was lit entirely by romantic candles and an ice filled cooler with a bottle of champagne stood next to the tub, two glasses nestling against the edge.  
  
“How on earth did you ...?” John was positively speechless.  
  
“Careful planning,” was all Sherlock would divulge. “Do you need a hand to get in?”  
  
“Unless you want me to splash the bubbles all over the floor, yes,” John admitted, happy to let Sherlock half lift him into the warm water. He sighed as he instantly felt the congealed honey, sugar, custard crème et cetera begin to melt off his skin. Sherlock lingered a moment, opening the champagne and filling their glasses before joining John in the tub.  
  
Sherlock toasted him, and sipped his champagne. “Mmmh, that’s better. I am afraid your diet has been too dominated by dairy products and red meat. Your semen was above average salty, which did clash a bit with the honey and custard crème, I find.” He downed the rest of his glass and reached for the bottle, topping off John’s glass and refilling his own.  
  
“Sherlock, really? The gourmet qualities of my semen? That’s the subject you want to discuss after what we just did?”  
  
“Fine, we’ll not discuss it then, as long as you’ll allow me to direct your appetites towards condiments that may sweeten you a bit. I’d say a liberal dose of tropical fruits, cinnamon and parsley should help.”  
  
“You say a lot of bull, you do,” John sulked, but then grinned at Sherlock, giving him a peck. “You just stick to using your mouth on my cock, which puts it to much better use.”  
  
“Crude, John, crude. But I’m glad you enjoyed it.”  
  
“Oh, that may be an understatement. Definitely the highlight of my day so far. So any more plans, or are we just melting away in this lovely tub all night?”  
  
“Oh, we have plans. We’re going to a show, and then supper,” Sherlock informed him.  
  
John stared at him. “Are you going to suffer through a show just because it’s my birthday?”  
  
“I may sleep through it, but it is my intention to be present, yes,” Sherlock confirmed.  
  
“What? What are we seeing?” John got a little bouncy, despite the warm water.  
  
“A musical entertainment, God help me,” Sherlock admitted.  
  
“Which one?” John asked, seriously doubting that Sherlock could make it through Les Mis without deducing Thénardier and comparing Javert to Lestrade, up to and not including watery graves. He wouldn’t be outraged with a society that sentenced a man to years in jail for stealing bread, as much as their inability to recapture him. But John didn’t have to suffer through that ordeal with Sherlock, as luck would have it.  
  
“Well, the Palladium is putting up a Sinatra show to commemorate the anniversary of his London debut at that very location in 1950. It’s using modern technology in a mix of footage, a live orchestra and dancers. My network tells me it’s going to be quite extraordinary, something that should fit you to a tee, and quite probably be passable for me to endure.”  
  
“Yeah, ‘course I’ve heard of that, but it hasn’t opened yet, has it?”  
  
“Let’s just say it sort of will tonight.” Sherlock put on his best and smuggest enigmatic smile.  
  
“So will you for once admit there are advantages to being related to Mycroft, hmm?”  
  
“Never,” said he and hit the Jetstream and the warm water was whisked into a frenzy. This would have been nice if Sherlock hadn’t already filled the tub with bubbles. Within seconds they lost sight of each other, and the only reason Sherlock could find John was because his laughter was so insanely loud.  
  
After battling the bubble clouds that had risen in their sky they lay back in the tub giggling, polishing off most of the champagne. Sherlock remained generous with his kisses, and John graciously accepted them.  
  
He could quite gladly have retired for the night, nuzzling Sherlock till the sun came up. As birthdays goes, it hadn't been bad at all. But the idea of seeing Sherlock experiencing musical theatre was the spice of life, and John liked things hot, so he looked forwards to the birth-evening.   


 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A present from Mycroft. A lovely dinner - also with presents. And a present too many from Sherlock.

When they finally got out of the bathroom, Sherlock presented John with Mycroft’s present. A new bespoke suit, just what you needed for a night at the theatre, already hanging in the wardrobe. Of course, Sherlock had taken the opportunity to acquire himself some new threads as well, so when they were dressed they looked very edible.  
  
“Remind me to thank him when I see him.” John preened a bit in front of the mirror. It wasn’t often he got to dress up in a shiny black suit, unless someone was getting married, or worse. The last time he’d worn a suit like this had at been Sherlock’s ‘funeral’. He stowed away that unwelcome memory deep in his mind.  
  
“You’ll remember,” Sherlock grinned and ushered John out the door.  
  
John only briefly wondered what Sherlock meant by that, but it became obvious when they got to the Palladium and Mycroft and Greg were waiting for them outside.  
  
“Evening gents, thank you very much for your present.” John nodded at Mycroft and gave Greg a hug. “I take it I also have you to thank for the evening’s entertainment?”  
  
“Definitely not all of it, however, I may have had a small involvement in this musical interlude. Allow me to offer my congratulations. Salubrious solar-orbital anniversary, John.”  
  
“Yeah, happy birthday,” Greg intoned.  
  
“Thanks, guys,” John said and made sure to match stride with Mycroft as they entered the theatre. He managed a few private words in a hushed voice. “I thought you hated this sort of thing with a passion, what are you really doing here? “  
  
“It is factually correct that I favour a good book, a dry sherry and a soft chair over the offerings of the theatre establishment, but I found myself in circumstances where it was difficult to deny this experience to Gregory, who very much wanted to partake of the evening when he overheard Sherlock and I arrange it, as well as join in your celebration. It is currently against my nature to negate the aspirations he expresses,” Mycroft explained in an equally subdued voice.  
  
“You simply can’t say no to him, huh?”  
  
“Afraid not,” Mycroft admitted, but garnished it with a smile.   
  
“So where are we sitting?” John asked as they entered the lobby. There were only a handful of other guests there.  
  
“Front row, middle,” Mycroft informed him with a set of raised eyebrows that indicated the question was preposterous.  
  
“Of course,” John grinned.  “So is this a dress rehearsal?”  
  
“We can call it that. Myself and a few members of the Windsor family asked the theatre for their indulgence, and they kindly obliged.”  
  
“The Windsors…?” John looked around at the other guests and recognised a nose here and there.  
  
“Don’t worry. They have their own box. You won’t have to… mingle,” Mycroft hurried to reassure him.  
  
“Well, that’s a load off,” John agreed and grinned. “Does the show start at any given time, or just when we arrive?”  
  
“I believe there is a designated satus tempus, so we should probably find our seats,” Mycroft said and turned away to look at the big clock on the far wall. “Are you coming… oh, for God’s sake, Sherlock! Spit him out!” Mycroft rolled his eyes heavenward as Sherlock continued his snogging-programme du jour.   
  
Apart from the exasperated sighs Mycroft emitted every time Sherlock remembered his promise to kiss John, or simply got too bored not to, John very much enjoyed the show. He marvelled at both Sherlock and Mycroft staying awake all the way through. Greg remarked to him that they should put that in the headlines on the poster.  
  
Even though there were just a few of them in the audience they still managed to make quite a respectable applause at the end, and granted the performers a standing ovation. John turned to thank Mycroft for the experience, but he was busy getting ‘thanked’ by Greg, so he turned back to Sherlock, ushering him out into the lobby. After a few moments Mycroft and Greg joined them.  
  
“Thank you, Mycroft, Sherlock.” John nodded at both of them. “That was really quite a treat. I felt like royalty there,” he grinned. “So can I buy you guys a pint and some chips to round off the evening?”  
  
“I do believe that we have reservations at The Delaunay at ten o’clock, that is if you can stand our company a while longer. If you would prefer to be alone with Sherlock on your day, I quite understand.”  
  
“What?” Greg interrupted. “Nope, not done. You’re coming with us mate, just wait till you see the cake My has ordered for you.”  
  
“That’s all right,” John grinned. “Of course I’d love to have dinner with you two.”  
  
“In that case, the car is waiting,” Mycroft said and led the way outside.  
  
A mere fifteen minutes later they entered the restaurant, and John smiled broadly as Molly and Rain got up from the table they had been waiting at and greeted him with well wishes for his birthday.  
  
“This is a surprise, you should have come to the theatre with us, there was plenty of room,” John told them.  
  
“Oh, don’t worry. We were offered seats, but we don’t go to see anything that someone can’t tell us about beforehand. We need to make sure there is nothing in it that can cause stress in Rain. Not that Sherlock’s pills aren’t working, but better safe than sorry,” Molly giggled.  
  
“Why you would want to go out with a woman in the first place when you are required to avoid stress is beyond me,” Sherlock told Rain as he took a seat.  
  
“Yes, thank you, Sherlock, but I’d rather take dating advice from John than you,” Rain said with a big smile. “Besides, the only distress Molly has ever caused me were during those six months it took me to talk her into going out with me.”  
  
“She is a sensible girl, she had to wait and see how well you recuperated, if at all,” Sherlock said with his usual tact.  
  
“It was nothing of the sort,” Molly protested. “I was worried that I could hurt him if it didn’t work out.”  
  
“Same thing,” Sherlock dismissed the whole idea and looked at the menu. “I think I shall eat tonight.”  
  
“Well, then let’s order.” Greg smiled broadly and put his menu card away.  
  
“Oh, are we doing that one?” John grinned.  
  
“Of course we are, don’t we always?” Greg grinned back, looking at Mycroft.  
  
“Very well, but who’ll do Molly and Rain?” Mycroft asked while perusing the menu.  
  
“Wait. What?  _Do_  us?” Molly wrinkled her nose.  
  
“Yeah, it’s a game we play when eating out,” John explained. “Mycroft and Sherlock have to deduce our appetites. Sherlock orders for me, and Mycroft orders for Greg. They are scarily good at it. Sometimes I didn’t even know what it was I wanted, but Sherlock nearly always gets it right.”  
  
“So who’s winning the game?” Rain asked.  
  
“Mycroft has a few points on Sherlock, but that’s because that big oaf chooses my desserts based on what he likes to taste in my kisses, rather than what I really want.” John caressed Sherlock’s hand affectionately, and received a heated snogging in return.  
  
“If you don’t stop that at the table, nobody is having dessert,” Mycroft scolded him.  
  
“Spoilsport!” Sherlock said, after breaking off the kiss. “Anyway, I’ll order for Rain, and you order for Molly.” That decided, Sherlock immersed himself in concentration and the menu.  
  
“Hang on. Easy there, Sherlock. I’m not sure we can afford anything you want to order for us, this isn’t exactly pub prices,” Molly piped up and Rain nodded in agreement.  
  
“The one who chooses, pays. Those are the rules,” Greg assured Molly with a wink.  
  
“Wha...? Oh, no. I didn’t mean... we can pay for ourselves, just not...” Molly gestured wildly till Sherlock placed one big hand on her small ones and guided them down to her lap.  
  
“Those really are the rules, Molly. We are not constructing them in situ to deceive you. Now, if we may please proceed. John can reassure you that our bank account is more than able to sustain the meal, and even if it wasn’t my brother would step up to leave an official looking credit card on the table, so do shut up and let us figure out what you are eating tonight.”  
  
“Indeed, little brother, just remember that the dessert is pre-ordered, given the occasion tonight.”  
  
“I remember, but that still leaves starters, soups, mains and side dishes.”  
  
“Correct, except cheese would be optional, so will you start?” Mycroft beckoned a waiter over.  
  
“No cheese! They serve it with grapes here,” Greg interceded, winking at John.  
  
“Not sure I wouldn’t allow that in,” John countered.  
  
“Side with me here, Molly,” Greg implored. “I will not have Mycroft eat grapes in public. Not anymore.” He gave Mycroft a look that made Molly decide never to go home till Greg had told her what exactly grapes could do for a relationship.  
  
“Go on then, Sherlock?” Mycroft offered.  
  
“I shall. John first then. He is quite hungry today, having had a light breakfast, but that is hardly a deduction as I witnessed it, since then he has eaten light but sweetly, consequently he wouldn’t actually mind the rib-eye, but I am of a mind to cut down on his intake of red meat as we are trying to improve or rather lessen the salty quality of his… ouch!”  
  
“Shut up, Sherlock. Privacy, ok?” John hissed at him.  
  
“No need to explain, Sherlock. I understand perfectly,” Mycroft smiled that thin smile that made John want to take a butter knife to his mouth and pry it open.  
  
“Right, continuing then. John will start with the spiced vegetables with a fried duck egg followed by the roast scallops and prawns. Since he has periods where he frets about his intake of K-vitamin he’ll take a side order of wilted spinach with that. Your turn, Mycroft.”  
  
“Let’s see.” Mycroft pretended to study the menu further, but they all knew he’d already made his mind up.  Greg was smiling in anticipation. “Gregory will start with the tarte flambée with bacon and shallots. He has been a little edgy since the show, which always indicates his need for bacon. Don’t ask, just really don’t. Then he’ll have the rib-eye steak, since I have no such qualms, and we shall garnish that with some buttery mash, because he feels he needs to balance the heavy meat.” Mycroft put the card down and looked at Greg. Greg gave him a broad smile in return, but neither he nor John commented on the choices yet.  
  
“Me again, then.” Sherlock picked the menu up, and managed a smile in Rain’s direction, where in actuality he was assessing him just one more time before ordering. “Rain, you had a big breakfast, but a disappointing lunch. Probably hurried it. You had some… errmm… fruit? ...late in the afternoon, but you are almost ravenous now, so you will start with wild mushroom pierogis with truffle cream…”  
  
There was a little intake of breath and Rain’s eyes widened considerably.  
  
“… followed by roast duck with cherry jus. You probably don’t want a side salad, but Molly wants to put some meat on your ribs, so you’re having sprouting broccoli with paprika butter, and it will make you happy that you made her happy.”  
  
“I was just going to have a hotdog,” Rain grinned, delighted with the choices made for him.  
  
“Yes, I suppose that’s more what you are used to in your boring mundane existence… ouch! Same spot, John! Why?”  
  
“BNG, Sherlock!” John said, his lips tight.  
  
Rain raised a questioning eyebrow towards Molly.  
  
“Bit Not Good,” Molly and Greg explained in unison.  
  
“Ah,” Rain nodded, as Molly turned to Mycroft to hear his selections for her.  
  
“Let’s see, Molly. Are you hungry?” Mycroft teased, but didn’t wait for an answer. “You had a light lunch, but you had it late, you were stressed and didn’t digest properly because your blood sugar had dropped too much. You don’t feel very hungry now, but when you start eating your appetite will be awakened, so let’s appease that, shall we?” He raised the menu again and addressed the waiter. “Molly will start with the borscht - the colour will compliment her skin tone - and then she’ll dine on the fish…the halibut? No, I think not. The sea trout with thyme beurre blanc. At a glance there are no side dishes that would appeal to her taste, so that will be all for the lady. Thank you.”  
  
“Oh, that sounds a treat,” Molly said. “Oh, sorry. Should I have shut up now?”  
  
“No,” John reassured her. “The game part is over, we can talk now.”  
  
“So, how did we do?” Sherlock asked John.  
  
“Spot on, your selection was perfect, and I didn’t feel like the steak. I want exactly what you ordered. Top points.” John was all smiles. “Greg?”  
  
“Yup, of course My was right. He always is.” Greg reached over and pecked Mycroft on the cheek.  
  
“If I can’t kiss John, you two can’t kiss either,” Sherlock was quick to protest.  
  
“Get over yourself,” Greg stuck his tongue out at him, and Mycroft rolled his eyes again.  
  
“And you two?” Mycroft asked the young couple.  
  
“I have no idea,” Rain said. “I suppose so, it sounds fantastic and I love duck, so…”  
  
“I’ll take top marks for that one then,” Sherlock announced.  
  
“Well, you can have that too, Mycroft,” Molly said. “I simply love trout, and I can’t wait.”  
  
“Fine, full marks all the way around. You’re in fine form tonight, you two.” John picked the menu up. “And in honour of my birthday, I demand the privilege to order for you, Sherlock. “  
  
“Fine,” Sherlock half-sulked, “but I’ll only eat what I want.”  
  
“Great, then he…” John looked at the waiter and inclined his head towards Sherlock, “…will start with a dozen oysters followed by the fillet steak with wild mushrooms. Oh, and a side of buttery mash for him too. Mycroft, will you pick the wines?”  
  
“Of course, my pleasure. And I’ll take the roast duck with a mixed leaf salad if you’ll please. No starter,” Mycroft said before indicating three bottles of wine to the waiter by pointing at them in order.  
  
The starters arrived, and as always Greg managed to sneak a few bites of his into the ever abstaining Mycroft. They talked about the show, and Mycroft promised to send Rain and Molly tickets, since they deemed it absolutely safe for Rain to attend.  
  
“How is your job?” John asked. “Is it completely stress free?”  
  
“I’d say, yes,” Rain snickered. “Even though there are piles and piles.”  
  
“Are they nice to you at the palace?” Greg inquired.  
  
“Oh, yes. They are all so very sweet. Good colleagues. Always offering friendly advice,” he elaborated.  
  
“Enlighten me,” Sherlock butted in between two oysters, “you spend your entire days filing teenager’s fan mail to the royal family?”  
  
“It’s important that these letters are properly filed for the future. Royal correspondence is a vital part of our history, and in five hundred years, someone will be very impressed with how eloquent and inquisitive these young girls are,” Rain countered.  
  
“Well said, Rain, well said indeed.” Mycroft nodded and pilfered another shallot off Greg’s plate.  
  
“And it’s not only adoring fan mail we get, there are very serious pleas for royal clemency, requests and invitations,” Rain insisted.  
  
“No threatening letters, I hope?” Molly asked.  
  
“Oh, no. Such things are filtered away by people in dark suits and sunglasses way before they reach my desk,” Rain assured her.  
  
“Oh, good. Then you are free to release all your stress on Molly,” Sherlock teased him and received a glare from John.  
  
“There is no stress from her.” Rain looked adoringly at his girlfriend. “Except when she has night duty. I hate being alone, waiting for her. I prefer to work late myself on those days.”  
  
“You are sweet,” Molly said and kissed his nose. “And I am cutting back on the night shifts, I promise.”  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes, and picked out the last oysters, noticing John smiling every time he ate one. “Yes, I know these are aphrodisiacs, Doctor Twatson,” he chided him, “but let me assure you, I don’t need them. I am perfectly capable of…”  
  
“Probably stop talking now, Sherlock, thanks!” John interrupted him.  
  
Greg chuckled and shook his head, Mycroft tried very hard to ignore his little brother, and Molly and Rain were too caught up in each other to notice anything anyway.  
  
They managed some quite decent small talk during the main courses. Molly and Rain barely spoke, they were so engrossed in the food, and even Mycroft conceded that the roast duck was worth some kind deliberation.  
  
“That was lovely, but let’s please have the dessert now,” Mycroft asked their waiter as he cleared the plates.  
  
When the three tiered cake arrived covered in gold décor and roses John could do nothing but gape at it. It took him a while to find words.  
  
“This  _must_  be your doing, Mycroft. How many people were you expecting here tonight?” John huffed in appreciation of the tower of a cake looming before him on the table.  
  
“One can never be entirely sure with you apparently. There is precedence of army comrades or rugby ‘mates’ turning up, unannounced and uninvited according to Sherlock, so I thought better safe than sorry,” Mycroft explained.  
  
“Once, that happened once, and the only reason he was so annoyed with that was because he’d forgotten my birthday himself, again.“ John glared at Sherlock who successfully ignored the glare.  
  
“Well, we certainly have enough cake for the six of us. I hope you don’t expect us to eat all of that?” Molly laughed, her small stature dwarfed by the cake. “Are the gold leaves edible?”  
  
“Everything but the flowers is edible,” Mycroft explained. “I think they may have gone overboard on the roses, but it’s probably to make up for the lack of candles.” Mycroft assessed the cake and came up with a decision. “I propose that we eat the middle tier tonight, send the top tier home with John and Sherlock to munch on tomorrow, and deliver the bottom tier to the Great Ormond Street hospital. There are children there who can polish that off quicker than a lion can debone a giraffe.”

 

“Lovely comparison, Mycroft, but a bloody good idea. Let’s do it that way,” John concurred and let the waiter remove the top tier before he cut into the middle one, distributing the slices among them.  
  
As they ate, Molly brought out a present for John, neatly wrapped in flowery paper with a little white bow. “It’s not much,“ she apologised, “but I hope you’ll like it.”  
  
“I’m sure I will,” John said and tore the wrapping off. “Nope, I  _know_  I will, thank you Molly.” John reached over and gave her a peck on the cheek.  
  
“What is it?” the ever curious detective wanted to know.  
  
“A collection of jam from Fortnum and Mason, all my favourites.  _My_ favourites, Sherlock. For eating. Nothing in here ends up under a microscope.”  
  
Sherlock grumbled something inaudible and took another mouthful of his cake.  
  
“Here is mine, I really hope you like it.” Rain pushed a flat package across the table to John, discreetly wrapped in grey paper with a black ribbon.  
  
John opened it carefully to find a small hard box, and inside it a pair of very dark sunglasses. “Wow, good stuff. Oddly familiar, almost... I don’t know, military quality?” John took them out and tried them on.  
  
“Yes,” Rain confirmed. “Sherlock said that is the style you prefer, and that you currently don’t have a pair.”  
  
“Sherlock told you that?” John turned towards Sherlock; his eyebrows raised high enough to almost be visible over the edge of the sunglasses. Sherlock got busy and took a swig, tasted and evaluated the sweet wine Mycroft had chosen for the cake, seemingly oblivious to the rest of the occupants at the table. John knew better and reached down to squeeze Sherlock’s thigh. “Of course Sherlock knows my taste, as I know his. Thank you, Rain, I love these, and I shall wear them whenever I, or Sherlock, feel like  _hanging_  around in strong sunlight, right love?” John snickered as Sherlock choked on the sweet wine, coughing into his napkin.  
  
“Oh, I’m glad you like them,” Rain smiled broadly, so glad that he finally had an income that allowed him to buy presents for his friends.  
  
“Mine now,” Greg announced with a wicked laugh that made John hesitant to open the small black box he was handed. It wasn’t wrapped, just closed by a small, intricate lock. John thumbed it open to find a silver chain, with two clamps in either end. He didn’t even have to recall any medical experience to know what it was.  
  
“Nipple clamps? Really, Greg? You do know that the Christmas presents were entirely Sherlock’s idea, right? I had nothing to do with that!”  
  
“Oh, I figured that much. So no, it’s not tit for tat, so to speak. I just thought you could have fun with those. Whether you want to wear or use. I know we enjoy ours!” Greg threw a naughty smile across his shoulder at Mycroft.  
  
“Well, thank you. They’re exquisite. Are they really silver?”  
  
“You bet,” Greg grinned at him.  
  
“What did you get him, Sherlock?” Molly asked.  
  
Sherlock smiled at John and told his tale.  “A room at the Savoy, a personal massage in two instalments, high tea, and oh yes, I also found this great little toy online, and when I insertedfffmmmm…”  
  
John had chosen that precise moment to launch his own snog-attack on Sherlock, and Mycroft thought he’d let this one slide.  
  
When he was done with his exploration of Sherlock’s molars, John steered the conversation towards safer topics.  
  
“So, Mycroft. Any further plans to fulfil mummy’s ambitions for grandparenthood?”  
  
“We are as yet undecided,“ Mycroft said with a glance at Greg.  
  
“You mean you haven’t found an excuse that she’ll accept yet?” John smirked.  
  
“No, I actually mean that we are discussing the concept with a mind to let the theory evolve into a semblance of reality,” Mycroft explained.  
  
Sherlock looked up at that. “You are looking into adoption? Really?”  
  
“Just skirting around the options available to us, nothing defined. Nothing decided. Nothing omitted,” was all Mycroft would say and the subject was closed, since they were coming to the end of dinner anyway.  
  
Their waiter brought John and Sherlock a box with the left over cake, and Mycroft discreetly handled the bill.  
  
“I take it you two can manage the walk to The Savoy from here?” Mycroft asked, but didn’t wait for an answer before turning to Molly and Rain, “so we can offer you a lift home, if you’d like?”  
  
“Oh, that would be lovely, thanks. It’s been such a lovely evening, really. Thank you so much.”  
  
“Don’t mention it,” Mycroft retorted and pulled Molly’s chair out, offering her an arm. He was, however, pushed gently away by Rain who claimed that honour, and Mycroft turned to Greg instead, taking his hand with practised ease.

“Thanks again, Mycroft, for this evening and for the suit, it truly is very elegant,” John said as they were leaving.  He was about to thank him for the flamboyant cake as well, but then he had his attention rudely pulled away from Mycroft as Sherlock slammed their bodies together against the doorway.  
  
Sherlock’s lips roamed over John’s neck, and he finished his tour de cou whispering in his ear, “I just want to take it off you and feel your sweaty body thrash under me, rolling in the sheets, taking you again and again.”  
  
John gasped and couldn’t help but buck against Sherlock’s warm body, so he hardly noticed the four other people scrambling to get out the door away from them.  
  
“Let me walk you home,” Sherlock smiled and locked his hands with John’s, pulling him out of the restaurant.  
  
“All yours,” John assured him and hurried after Sherlock.  
  
It took them all but five minutes to reach the hotel. Sherlock poured them both a gin and tonic from the little bar in their room and they sat on the sofa just talking about the show and the dinner for fifteen wonderful, quiet minutes. John loved these rare moments where Sherlock’s brain was content, fed, entertained and entirely concentrated on him. However, Sherlock eventually got a certain gleam in his eye and excused himself.  
  
“If you’d just wait for me here a little while, I shall be back before you know it,” Sherlock promised him, and disappeared into the bathroom.

John sat on the small sofa in the corner sipping his drink as he waited for Sherlock to emerge, wondering what he was up to now. The door opened and he was surprised to hear the sound of stiff leather and hard heels. The sound of little clinks should have warned him, but he was still completely unprepared for what he saw. He rose immediately, staring at Sherlock as he entered the room, leaning up against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his bare chest.

There was a thud as the soft carpet broke Johns fall, and he must have bitten into it as well because the hysterical noises were muted – after a moment his head popped up behind the sofa table, glaring at Sherlock

“What.Is.That?” John’s mouth hung open and his eyes were round as cricket balls at the sight of Sherlock wearing only three extremely distinct items. Only! John diplomatically pressed his lips together, desperately smothering the grin that threatened to explode again.  
  
“Chaps!” Sherlock made a pretty good attempt at a drawl. “Chaps, John. Surely you know that! You’re always watching westerns.”  
  
“Yes,” John hiccupped, “I know what they are, but they are usually worn over jeans, while riding a horse. You seem to be missing both. And are you actually wearing spurs?” He tried to crane his neck to see what Sherlock was wearing on his feet, fighting a losing battle to keep a monumental giggle out of his voice.  
  
“Of course! I looked at a number of pornographic entertainment films, and this seemed to be a favoured outfit. I know that you know that I like to see you in certain outfits...” Sherlock trailed off to see if there was a spark of recognition to that statement in John’s eyes.  
  
“Oh, yes. I’m well aware. My desert fatigues are always pressed and dry cleaned, and there is a magical kilt-seamstress living in the closet. A new one appears every now and then.” John snickered. “But from kilts to that...?”  John wanted to explode with laughter so badly that tears pressed out of his eyes as he clenched his jaw really, really tightly to contain the mirth. The mere sight of Sherlock’s buttocks protruding from the back of those chaps, and the way the boots clung to his calves... it would have been hot, could have been hot, but it was...   _Sherlock, not Hopalong Cassidy_! Crazy curls, huge intellect, blindingly pale skin, sinewy muscles just did not mix with _... that_. _  
_  
“Chaps,” Sherlock reminded him.  
  
“Yes... that! Oh shit... sorry. Can’t, just can’t hold it...” John managed to grab a pillow to clutch to his chest as he slid to the floor again, losing his composure to the best laugh he’d had in years.  
  
Sherlock was, as he often stated himself, one of the most intelligent men in the world, so he immediately recognised a lost cause and retired to the bathroom to retire the chaps, and boots, and spurs. Forever and ever. He took a moment before he came back out. He took several. In fact he waited till the sounds of hysterical hyena laughter from the adjoining room abated.

Eventually he ventured out and helped John up from the floor to sit on the sofa. He sat down next to him, looking a little dejected in his newly donned bathrobe.

John took pity on him and got a hold of himself. He lifted Sherlock’s hand to his lips and kissed it. “I love your imagination and your willingness to ever expand our life with sexual fantasies, but those chaps and boots are never coming to bed with us, darling. Just... no! Nope, they’re not.” John was still fighting hard to control his laughter, but it was becoming a winning game. “I love you for wanting to do this for me. It’s the best present of them all.”  
  
Sherlock didn’t protest, but he also didn’t comment. He just looked at John, cocking his head.

“There’s only one thing I want to see you in and that is your skin. Nothing looks as good on you as nothing!”  John assured him and dried his eyes. “But I shall never forget it. This birthday will be something I’ll remember forever, and we’re keeping the chaps. But in a box. You may want to lend them to Mycroft someday. Now, please forgive me for laughing and take me to bed. It’s my birthday, after all.” He kissed Sherlock on the nose and offered him a sip of his drink, both of which was gracefully received.

As they walked hand in hand to the bathroom to brush their teeth John elaborated: “There are of course exemptions to the looking good in nothing-rule, like for instance you know I like the purple shirt. I know you know, because you wear it every time you want something, or if I have done something you particularly approve of. The black shirt comes out when you have blown something up, or your experiments have taken down yet one of my jumpers – and when you are horny you put jeans on, knowing only too well that I can’t keep my hands off them.”  
  
“John Watson, you are finally observing,” Sherlock smiled at him, proud of John’s evolvement at his hands. “I shall wear the purple shirt for you in the morning.”  
  
“Of course you will, you didn’t bring a change,” John teased him and squeezed toothpaste onto Sherlock’s toothbrush, and then his own. They allowed their hands to roam their bodies, warming up for bed, and by the time they were done, John was more than ready to go horizontal.  
  
“Chaps or not, my plan is still in effect, and I intend to ride you,” Sherlock promised him.  
  
“But without the  _yeehaw_ , if you please,” John smiled and threw himself on the bed, pushing the small pillow chocolates to the floor, patting the mattress. “Come here, my little pony.”  
  
“There may be a little yeehaw involved,” Sherlock teased as he shed the housecoat and crawled onto the bed and John. He didn’t hesitate for a second before he claimed John’s mouth in a fervent kiss, building it like a fire; solidly, amassing heat and balance, and ever increasing in intensity. He let his hands roam John’s body, and felt John doing the same to him. In a manner of seconds they were panting, clinging to each other through the kiss while their bodies responded with a hardening of nipples and other extremities.  
  
It was a dance, John thought. A well planned, and expertly executed tango. And no one in the world could dance with the panache of Sherlock. He could make their bodies slide together as if they were two glaciers passing and shaping the earth over the duration of billions of years, and he felt their lovemaking had the same enduring impact on his world. When they worked on a case Sherlock could spend eternal days and nights focusing his mind on the issue, to the exclusion of John and not only sex, but sleep, food and drinks as well. John was getting better at managing the dry spells. He found it made him appreciate Sherlock’s undivided attention so much more when he had it. So even if they had now been lovers for one and a quarter year he was still lit aflame with every touch from Sherlock, every kiss, every caress and every endearing look.  
  
Sherlock ended the kiss with a small bite to John’s swollen lips. He rolled off John and lay on his back, panting as he reached into the drawer. “Prepare me, John,” he whispered huskily and handed John the plug that he’d used on him in the afternoon.  
  
“I will prepare you – but only if you do exactly what I say, ok?”  
  
“If at all feasible and pleasurable to me,” Sherlock said.  
  
“Erm, no,” John countered. “Exactly as I say, or not at all, not negotiable, Sherlock.”  
  
“Oh, all right then, but only in honour of your birthday. What do you want?”  
  
“I want you to lie down, and raise your arms above your head, hold on to the headboard if you have to, but don’t lower them, or I shall tickle you, or worse. Understood?”  
  
“Not fair and equitable, but again, birthday and all that,” Sherlock said and raised his arms, grabbing firmly onto the headboard of the bed.  
  
“Oh, it’s fair all right,” John smiled and lifted the plug. He sat up, and spreading Sherlock’s legs, he knelt between them.  He spotted a bottle of lube on the table and popped the cap open, lubricating the toy. He stroked Sherlock’s abdomen, luxuriating in the rise and fall of the taught stomach muscles every time his fingers got near his erection. He always felt triumphant when Sherlock responded to his touches, and he always did. So prettily. He inserted the plug slowly, moving it in and out a bit before turning it on to its first setting, remembering all too vividly what that had felt like. He looked forward to Sherlock’s reaction, and he was not disappointed.  
  
“That’s… oh, God,“ Sherlock swallowed, “more powerful than the size indicates.” Sherlock moaned as he involuntarily arched up towards John, looking surprised that his body had taken this arbitrary decision without consulting him first.  
  
“It is. And how many settings did you say there were?” John turned it on to the next, holding back a smile as Sherlock jolted again.  
  
“Four… fourteen,” Sherlock panted. “Don’t use all… want to last, for you,” he pleaded.  
  
“Heck, if you keep looking like that, I might not last for you,” John warned him.  
  
John smiled as Sherlock bucked under him, and let his hands slide up Sherlock’s thighs, pausing just long enough to press the third setting before wrapping one hand around Sherlock’s erection as the other cradled his balls. “You look so exquisite, like this. I could do this all night.”  
  
“I, I, I, I can do... this for about another ten seconds before I explode,” Sherlock informed him, “please be careful, John”.  
  
“Oh, I will be, it’s my birthday, and I want the fireworks.” John exemplified this by letting two fingers close tightly around the base of Sherlock’s erection, staving off any orgasm, while he used his other hand to turn the plug to the next level.  
  
“You are ruthless,” Sherlock protested, wriggling on the sheets under John’s ministrations. “You have to slow down, or I’ll... too soon.”

“Oh no, you won’t, I’m enjoying this,” John was unrelenting as he slowly stroked the head of Sherlock’s cock while his other hand held the firm grip at the base.

“Remember your sodding Hippocratic oath,” Sherlock wailed

“I’m not doing you harm, Sherlock, I’m just frustrating you,” John reassured him. “Besides, there was no mention of sod when I took the oath.”  
  
“Jooooohn!!” he was informed.  
  
“All right, we’ll take a break.” John stilled all movement, except the plug, he just turned that down to setting one, leaving it nestled inside Sherlock. John lay down on top of him, not caring that he was crushing their throbbing erections against each other, and took some serious time to snog Sherlock slowly, thoroughly and lovingly.  
  
John sat up again. “Ready, love?”  
  
“A little more composed now, thanks,” Sherlock nodded and grabbed the headboard again, nearly crushing it in his fingers as John turned the setting up to six, really wishing he had a webcam handy.  
  
“John, for God’s sake!” Sherlock protested the rapid development, and let go of the headboard to claw at John.  
  
John easily evaded the hand and grabbed it instead. “No, you don’t. Hold on to that headboard. I promise, I won’t let you come.”  
  
“But it’s an excess of stimulation in a constricted time frame,” Sherlock’s eyes pleaded with John.  
  
“Too much too soon?”  
  
“Yes,” Sherlock nodded.  
  
John got an idea and moved off the bed. “Just a second”, he said to console the mewling Sherlock who did not approve of that action. He rummaged through his pockets and returned to bed with the small box he’d been looking for.  
  
“Let’s see if this won’t take the edge off, because I do want to take you to at least setting ten before we proceed.” John climbed back between Sherlock’s legs and opened the box. The faint sound of tinkling metal was the only warning Sherlock got before his right nipple was caught in a clamp, and seconds later his left found itself in similar circumstances. A thin, elegant silver chain connected them. “There, how’s that?” John enquired as he sat back on his heels to enjoy the sight.  
  
Sherlock didn’t answer. Instead John could utilize his observational skills to notice several rounds of heavy swallowing, an increase in pressure to the headboard and numerous small bites that Sherlock delivered to his own lower lip.  
  
“Are you ok, Sherlock? It’s not hurting you, is it?” John was getting a little worried.  
  
“Ok, but intense,” Sherlock said, uncharacteristically quietly.  
  
“No pain?”  
  
“Some, but… good, somehow,” Sherlock conceded.  
  
“Fantastic. Then let’s see if you can handle level seven, just concentrate on the pain if the pleasure becomes too much, I guess,” John continued, but he was very mindful of Sherlock’s reactions. It seemed good though, as the onset of the next level simply extracted a long, deep moan from his lover, rather than the earlier bucking. “Ah, it’s helping you lie still. Very good. Warn me if you get too close, ok?”  
  
“Mhh, mhh,” Sherlock confirmed, since he found himself to be in a state a bit beyond words.  
  
“Are you enjoying this? You look like you are enjoying it,” John said, as he stared at Sherlock, mesmerized at the stillness of the body, the concentration on the face, the small beads of sweat forming on Sherlock’s brow.  
  
Sherlock managed to pry an eye open and fasten it on John, nodding ever so slightly, slamming the eye shut again when John reached down and upped the setting to eight.  
  
“Nearly there, just hold on a little longer and you can consider yourself very prepared,” John promised him and took Sherlock well and firmly in hand, once again closing his fist around the base of Sherlock’s erection which was now dripping liberally. “Nine,” he said as a warning before pressing the button, inhaling as Sherlock made the most exquisite noise, reminding John that Sherlock wasn’t the only one with a deadline here. “Very not long now,” he promised in an unsteady voice.  
  
“Hu… hu… hurry,” Sherlock stammered, panting so heavily that it sounded like small sobs.  
  
John took mercy on him and pressed the button a final time. “Ten! You’re there. How does it feel?”  
  
“Gneauugh gah, Nnh!” Sherlock informed him, in what was apparently a new variety of Swahili combined with a fresh abbreviation of John’s name.  
  
“You’re probably right.” John bit his lip as he slowly pulled the plug out of Sherlock without turning it off. When it was out he shut it off and lay it aside, running his hands up and down Sherlock’s shivering thighs till his breathing stilled a little. “I’m going to take the clamps off now too, so hold on to the headboard a little longer, please.”  
  
Sherlock emitted a long groan with each clamp removed and took a deep, shaky breath, unleashing his grasp of the headboard one finger at a time as if he did a countdown from ten to naught. Without warning he then sprang into action so fast that John didn’t even notice that he’d been upended till he found himself pressed into the mattress with a passionate detective consuming his mouth with the fervour of a moth seeking a flame. Before John could catch his breath the insistent mouth had moved down to his neck, adorning it with bites and licks, leaving John gasping for air and bucking up towards Sherlock to get into contact with all the slick, pale skin that was covering him.  
  
“Now! Now, John,” Sherlock insisted as he pushed himself up to sit astride John, not giving John a chance to respond. In his haste his hands fumbled a bit as he positioned himself above John, his fingers shaking slightly as he grabbed John’s erection and held it steady against his anus before he slowly and unwaveringly sank on to it. “Oh God, yes, yes!” he exhaled as he was filled, once again bending forward to claim John’s lips.  
  
John clawed at Sherlock’s back, trying to calm the chaos that had been unleashed in his mind and on his body, obviously failing miserably. “Want you, want all of you,” he panted in between the kisses, “need more birthdays, once a week at least. Fuck me, you wild beast, please let it loose, I can take all you can give.”  
  
“I can give... must give... of myself. It’s your day, you must receive... all, and I’m trying, but it’s too hot...” Sherlock moaned, riding John hard.  
  
John grabbed Sherlock’s hips and held them tight while bucking up forcefully into the heat above him, relishing in the whine it elicited from his lover and the feeling the intense friction brought him. “Must.Have.All.Of.You.Now!” he said while emphasizing each word with a viciously hard thrust of his hips, each of them making Sherlock whimper.  
  
“God, yes! Take it, John, take me!” Sherlock’s eyes were squeezed shut and his hands were grabbing John’s chest, index fingers automatically rubbing the hard nipples. “Touch me, please.”  
  
It didn’t take a mental revisit to medical school for John to know what part of his body Sherlock wanted touched, particularly since is it was jutting out at a provocative angle, emitting small drops of warm, sticky fluid onto John’s stomach. John removed his right hand from Sherlock’s hip and brought it to his mouth to give it a generous lick of saliva before he closed it around Sherlock’s erection.  
  
The reaction was immediate. Sherlock arched hard into the touch as he moaned so loud the air was reverberating around them. “Yes, that... that..., oh God, John! Are you ready? I’m so ready! So ready! Don’t stop, just... just...”  
  
”Oh, fuck. Right there... there with you,” John concurred and doubled his efforts, ramming into Sherlock as his fist sped up. For a second or two he thought he was beginning to see intricate patterns emerge on the ceiling, but in the back of his head he knew his mind was just fucking with him. He was so aroused, so why shouldn’t that have a good fuck too, he figured and forgave it.  
  
Even though he knew Sherlock was close it still took John as a surprise when he was suddenly hit in the face by a warm stripe of semen, followed a split second later by a coal mine deep groan from Sherlock who then started shivering from head to toe, spilling again and again, his thighs tightening so firmly around John that it worked as an ultimate, non-negotiable trigger, setting off his orgasm, bucking so hard up against Sherlock that he worried about throwing him off. John stayed buried deep inside Sherlock though, as he came shouting nonsensical words of love, understood only by the gods of creation.  
  
The air was filled with their groans, slick skin upon skin, lips that sought and found, and subsequent moans of utter fulfilment. Moments of hot and unforgotten want, before their bodies caught up with their contentment and they melted into each other, sated and satisfied. 

 ----                 
  
Remembering his duties on this day, it was Sherlock who roused. Accompanied by loud moans and sincere complaints he trotted off to the bathroom to wet a towel down and bring it back to clean John off rudimentarily, while offering him a glass of cold water. From a bottle, obviously, not the sink ( _have you ever tasted London water? If yes, not for long._ )

“Do you find my love making skills too vanilla? Or are they conversely too cinnamon and black pepper?” Sherlock asked as he climbed back into bed and tucked John under the covers, finishing off his birthday host responsibilities.  
  
“No, you’re neither. You’re perfect. The only flavour I want and need is Sherlock.” John smiled broadly and merged with the mattress.  
  
“Likewise, you fulfil me,” Sherlock said as he settled himself next to John.  
  
“Does that mean you love me?” John asked, hopefully.  
  
”Always have, always will, and you are wasting your time with that question. You are sufficiently able to make your own observations to deduce that fact by the elation you can see on my face every morning when I wake to find you by my side.”  
  
John didn’t comment, just snuggled up to Sherlock, sighing as he felt Sherlock’s head come to rest on his shoulder. But just before he drifted off to sleep he remembered a stray thought from earlier on in the evening.  
  
“Sherlock?” he queried of the half snoring entity drooling on his chest.  
  
“My lord and slightly annoying master of my universe for not much longer now… what do you want?” Sherlock answered sleepily and checked his watch by the bed to see how much time remained of John’s actual birthday, looking forward to reverting to his usual aggravating self.

“Remember the chat at dinner tonight…? What are you going to do if your brother and Greg actually go ahead and have a child somehow?”  
  
“Indubitably become an uncle. Goodnight John. And happy birthday.”

 

 

 

  
_Mycroft's little cake._  

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much if you've left comments or kudos. They are the fuel that feed the writers. Oh, and I appreciate concrit too - very much indeed. If you can help me get better, then kudos to you.
> 
> And I am so sorry for the chaps scene - it just had to be done. Sherlock is nearly perfect, but the 'nearly' is very important for any character. Not at least our beloved Sherlock.


End file.
